The Morning News
by Clere
Summary: Breakfast, the morning paper, and what it's like to grow old. Remus-Severus


Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own Harry Potter. Are you as disappointed as I am? grins

Notes: This is based on a challenge from the Snape/Lupin Fuh-Q Fest: What if werewolves and their mates had extraordinarily long lifespans? I've realized I'm obsessed with Remus' point of view. Also, very mild Draco-Harry and Ron-Hermione. Thank you to everyone who reviewed the other stories!

* * *

The Daily Prophet sat on the table with the scones, tucked between Remus' tea with cream and sugar and Severus' black coffee. Only the former of the two men read it – the other one had refused to touch "that heap of offal" after the article so many years ago entitled Potions Master Demands Obscene Repayment for Brewing Lupinae Draught. It had even included pictures of the two of them at home, doing – well, doing things that certainly shouldn't have ended up in the Daily Prophet. There was still a mark on the table where Severus had incinerated the paper, and it was almost two decades later before he finally allowed Remus to start subscribing to it again. So the Potions Master sat in blissful ignorance as his husband regarded the unusually melancholy Daily Prophet.

"Harry's dead," he murmured aloud, amber eyes looking up from that very headline to meet eyes still as black as the hair that framed them. Severus' hair would probably never gray, Remus had realized, and he was grateful for it.

"Nonsense," came the demure response, "It would be illogical to write 'The Boy Who Lived' on a gravestone."

Remus tried to look annoyed, and – failing that – tried to keep from chuckling in amusement. It _was_ rather funny, when he thought about it. "Stop that," he demanded without rancor, tone almost pleading. "Be sad. I'm sad." And why did he feel like he was trying to convince himself? That he wanted Severus to mourn because he couldn't seem to. Not that Severus mourning Harry seemed very likely at all, even after a hundred and forty odd years.

As always, Severus' penetrating gaze saw right through him, and his mate didn't mince words. "You sound desolate," drawled the soft voice, raspy now where it had once been smooth, and to Remus it was like liquid chocolate had changed to pure grains of cocoa. It was that voice that had made the werewolf irrevocably connect dark chocolate and sarcasm, because Severus' tongue tasted of the former and dripped with the latter. And he did love that tongue, even when it was prodding at things he didn't want to admit.

"But I should be!" Being almost two hundred years old, Hogwart's first lycanthropic Headmaster had assumed he would stop being befuddled by his own emotions, or lack there of. Weren't people supposed to be wise and calm as they grew older? Dumbledore had been wise, if a little strangely fascinated by socks. "Why am I not sad?"

It could have been a trick of the morning light, but it looked rather like Severus had rolled his eyes. They were quite a pair, Remus admitted with a slight smile, two aging wizards who had neither grown into wisdom and tranquility, nor grown out of childish habits. Long fingers – almost fragile, nowadays – curled loosely over Remus' hand, and one edge of a thin mouth turned up in what, for Severus, was a broad smile. There were no laugh lines to mar that austere face, but Remus loved it all the same. "My frigid demeanor must have rubbed off on you over the years," was his lover's explanation, the intertwined fingers at odds with the cool words.

He grinned, skin around his eyes crinkling into the familiar expression. His husband was – and could be – many things: tender, loving, kind, affectionate, passionate, comforting, startling, sometimes even terrifying, but it had been many, many years since he had been remotely _frigid_. "Don't worry," he replied, momentarily forgetting the reason he had started this conversation, "You always tell me that I've enough warmth for us both."

"It's a good thing," Severus intoned, staring at him with mock solemnity, "or we'd be universally despised and no one would ever invite us to dinner." Remus tried to swallow his laughter, snorted inelegantly and ended up laughing anyway. So much for aging gracefully, he thought, still chuckling because Severus _hated_ dinner parties and had once set fire to Remus' entire wardrobe in an attempt to keep them both at home. It had not only succeeded, but also kept them occupied finding . . . things that could be done without clothes. Then he remembered that Harry was dead and he shouldn't be laughing, shouldn't find things funny today. He felt like he was being callous, somehow, or irreligious. The Potions Master noticed the change in his face, but kindly said nothing. For all his sardonicism, no one else could listen like Severus, could understand when Remus needed to talk.

His free hand ran through his hair – entirely gray now, and cut short – and he sighed, trying to figure out why he was bothered. He hadn't been that grieved when Hermione died a few years back, but his lack of emotion hadn't eaten at him. Maybe he was starting to realize that the two of them would live longer than all the children they had helped to raise. "It's just –" a pause, a search for the right word "– wrong. We shouldn't outlive them. We, we don't deserve to outlive them."

One delicate, black eyebrow lifted in response. "You're absolutely right, Lupin," he replied, still using the old name after so many years and so many attempts to correct him.

"Snape," Remus amended, as usual, and – as usual – Severus ignored him.

"We'd best go kill ourselves now," the other wizard continued blandly, "before Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy have the indecency to die, and take their whole generation with them. They're dropping like flies these days, aren't they?" Black eyes bored into Remus', daring him not to see the absurdity of his own earlier statement with the idea of suicide, and the image of Draco or Ron buzzing about and then suddenly dropping dead.

Werewolves – when they found their mates, for it wasn't a choice or a courting, really, but a realization – and their spouses lived abnormally long lives. That was how it had always been, and better that he lived centuries with Severus than even a year without him. He knew that, and he also knew that imagining their former students as insects was once more giving him trouble keeping an appropriately grave expression.

Evidently his elderly lover and he did not agree on what was appropriate, because Severus quickly reached across the table and caught Remus' chin in his hand. "Don't," he said sharply, cool palm melting the stern set of his husband's face. "Don't mourn for him. He got to live his life – live all of it, as we were afraid he would never be able to do – and he was loved. If I know Potter –"

"Malfoy," Remus amended, and was summarily ignored.

"– then he's off on his next 'great adventure,' as Albus so irritatingly called it, waiting for Draco to give up being Minister and go meet him." The hand against Remus' cheek started to tremble, and Severus quickly withdrew it and sat back in his chair. It bothered the potions maker, Remus knew, that his body no longer obeyed his strict demands. They were getting old, themselves, they were not immortal, and that knowledge was almost comforting in its finality. Draco would meet his husband – though as a pureblood, he would live for quite a few more years – and Ron would see Hermione again, and Remus and Severus would eventually find their own way, even if it took them a little longer. But . . .

"I like being alive," Remus said aloud, and both Severus' eyebrows shot up, wondering what had brought about that particular revelation.

"I'm glad," he offered, too confused to be sarcastic, but Remus knew that was the intent.

The interjection was ignored – they had become adept at that over the years, knowing when to ignore each other – and Remus tilted his gray head thoughtfully as he continued speaking. "I like being alive," he repeated, "and I like having breakfast with you every morning, and I like growing old with you – even if you don't like growing old, yourself.

Severus glared briefly at his hands, as though their tremors had alerted Remus to that fact. One hand was wrapped in Remus', that had grown thin and fragile and shaky but that still wore the simple golden band that Remus had placed on it over a century ago, reminding him that some things did not change. Reminding him that he did not need to mourn Harry's death, nor his own longevity, and that every morning he woke up wrapped in Severus' arms was another day worth living. The Daily Prophet sat forgotten on the table as Remus squeezed his husband's aged hand, trying to convey a hundred and forty years of love and gratitude that he could not express in words. And Severus, as always, understood.


End file.
